


the lifespan of a Lion’s tooth is 24 hours and a hundred years

by rakuraiwielder



Series: 장추: the flowers that fall from your hands [3]
Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, CREATIVE LIBERTIES bois, Developing Friendships, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Healing, F/M, Gen, MC suffers and survives through her ordeal, Unrequited Love, V Route, also the official final part of this series, doing some relationship and dynamic exploration, flower symbolism is my jam, hints of unrequited love ships, this was a long time coming, vanderwood and mc parallels gives me life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-12
Updated: 2018-01-25
Packaged: 2019-02-13 23:04:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12994449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rakuraiwielder/pseuds/rakuraiwielder
Summary: “So, you two together or something?”He knows even before he opened his mouth that things were not what they seem. Vanderwood through the looking glass. Vanderwood’s POV through and after. V-Route(I use he/him pronouns for vander due to story structure.)





	1. empty hands hold seeds of white

 

**24 hours (is an eternity)**

 

He takes his first good look of the ragged party when he opens the door to the cabin within the woods; one of Seven’s supposed safest retreats. But even ‘safe’ was only ever a temporary notion. He should know; having been in his line of expertise for so long. One glance at the slumping man and pallor skin and he feels his regrets begin to climb. Damn Seven and the promise of a car he prays is worth this experience.

There was a young woman with them, unnervingly silent as she attempts to hold the mint-haired man on his feet and walk him to the couch. Her face was pale, but the former’s face even paler. And then Seven was explaining, and he pays no more mind as he clicks his tongue and sets to work, ignores the peculiar look in her eyes as she backs away and shifts out of sight, ignores everything but her bare presence as her shadow moves back again to hand him a tub of water he needed.

The detoxification process takes up the better part of the night; it required sweat, but the poison was too strong, its properties unknown, the patient choking and weak. A fool’s errand, but Vanderwood would be damned if he didn’t try since Seven would probably not take it too kindly, and he really wanted that luxurious,  _pretty_ , sports car.

When he finally finishes the clock-hand was a little after 3 in the morning. Mint-hair was breathing heavily in his sleep, but he would live, and that was enough. Vanderwood stands, and immediately sees the woman step forward. She must have been watching all this time from afar, he realises, and feels almost sorry for the straight brusqueness he had applied trying to save a life through the night.

“I can’t thank you enough.” She rasps, and clears her throat, looks at him with so much gratefulness beneath dark circles. Her eyes flash again, the peculiar look back in their depths as she turns down to look at Mint-hair. Something strangely detached that looked like pain and grief, but then the man before them starts to stir, and Vanderwood files that information carefully away as he packs his tools and pulls off his soiled gloves.

“I did what I could. The rest is up to him, or a hospital.”

“No hospitals.” Mint-hair wheezes, cracking open hazy eyes. A coughing fit cuts him off, and he is instantly shushed. The woman bends before him and takes his hand, and the look that crosses his face as he smiles makes Vanderwood look away, comprehending.

A knock on the door to notify Seven, and then he leaves them to it as he makes his rounds, cleans and sterilises his tools and gloves the best he can with whatever adequate standards the cabin could offer. He returns to the living room to see Mint-hair drift into a restless sleep, his fingers interlaced with hers. Seven was gone; shut himself off to deal with matters of deterring a hacker. He wouldn’t know, could aim to care less. But the serious look in the agent’s eyes had roused a bit of his interests. As far as he was concerned, Seven was never this focused.

A moment passes, yet he remains unmoving in the shadows. He wonders why, thinks back to that one look and squeeze of hands.

_Ah, right._

Movement catches his attention again. Slowly the woman’s shoulders slump, and she turns away from the sleeping man. Her mouth parts, and closes soundlessly. She huffs half-heartedly, and looks to the window.

“It’s funny how déjà vu can feel so awful.” It was a soft mumble, directed to herself, but Vanderwood overhears it all the same. Her jaw clenches as she turns back, replaces the wet cloth on Mint-hair’s forehead gently before prying her hand away from his loose grip.

“I’m sorry, V.” It was a soft whisper, something sad glinting in her eyes as she leans against the couch and brings her knees together.

Vanderwood was gone even before she turns; to get involved is a bad thing, and he had already been roped in enough.

 

x

x

 

He sees her alone when the morning sun rises, sitting by the table and swirling pencil over sheets of paper. Her phone remains closed and put aside, green light blinking but untouched. He pays her no mind at first, passes her by several times from Seven’s barricade to the outside for a break or smoke. He spies Mint-hair once on one of his perimeter checks. The latter was in the car, eyes downcast and deep in thought. It would be a wise decision, he thinks, to keep his distance. Vanderwood deftly ignores thinking of the imminent moment when he would have to check on his condition again.

It is only in the late afternoon when he emerges from the kitchen for the nth time did he think to make conversation with her, if only because the silence was killing him and apart from observing Seven there was really nothing else to do.

Closer inspection sees the woman sketching painfully awkward bell-like shapes on the paper. At least, he thought it was. It was rather hard to see upside down.

“Sooo…” He jerks his head towards the sketches. “Those are pretty.”

She lifts her head at his voice, pencil stalling. Blinks once in surprise, another time as she swallows.

“I suppose so.” Unlike the night before, her voice did not catch nor grate. “Thanks.” She smiles at him when he joins her on the couch. Her dark circles had faded, her eyes brighter. Despite himself, Vanderwood eases. At least she seems approachable.

She catches him glancing inconspicuously at her drawings, and with a wider grin, turns the paper towards him. At this angle he sees they are flowers, petals clustered together. Various different shading styles litter the page, trying to capture the right texture of velvet petals and smooth pistil. Not a master craftsman’s work, but Vanderwood was never one to know nor follow these things.

“They are anemones.” She elaborates, and this time he recognises the glimpse of wistfulness that crosses her face; a gap of a façade. “At least, they should be.”

“Close enough. I can tell that they are flowers at least.” He shrugs, observes her discreetly before turning his gaze back to the amateur drawings. It does not hit him that his response might have been rude until he hears her huff.

He tenses, but before a stuttered apology can leave his throat she was already batting it away, mouth curling into an amused smile; bearing no ill will nor a bruised ego, and Vanderwood relaxes even as he reddens, retracts the previous statement in his thoughts that she was all but fragile in every sense of word.

“Are anemones all you draw?” It was meant to be an honest starter; to test his boundaries and the extent of their shallow conversation. Her expression falls then, changes into an unconscious grimace, and Vanderwood  _knows_.

“They are a memory.” She says softly, eyes distant and looking past the wall.

He leaves it at that.

 

x

x

 

Late afternoon comes soon enough, and then the night. Hours after sunset, Vanderwood clearly hopes Seven had some sort of plan soon. He was getting antsy. Staying put at one place for too long did not bode well for him, especially since he had gotten a better idea of what sort of mess the leader of the RFA was embroiled in—the chatroom he entered had told him as much. A cult, an obsessive ex who clearly needed help, and what he suspects was brainwashing. Ironically the news brought him a horrific sense of comfort and amusement; only someone like Seven could get involved in shenanigans of this calibre.  

The slight shake of the supposed RFA coordinator’s voice is what catches his attention when he exits the guestroom. She was speaking in hush tones, and it isn’t until he creeps closer that he could hear her breath hitch. Immediately his senses were on high alert.

Vanderwood remembers seeing her talk with Mint-hair earlier as he left the cabin for a smoke. The sad, almost closed-off demeanour had been evident in her body language even as she comforts the man with determined eyes. Mint-hair himself had not looked too surprised, but there had been a lost, helpless look in his face as he nodded and squeezed the hand that patted his shoulder in solace.

This was clearly not the case now. Vanderwood turns the corner and sees her on the phone. Her shoulders were tense, free hand clawing the hard concrete of the windowsill ledge. He watches, quiet and wary, as her hand makes a fist and nails sink into flesh.

“Why do you always say that?” He hears her say, the same peculiar emotion in her eyes the first night reflected in her voice as she heaves a silent shudder. “Ray, please…”

“Why can’t we ever agree on things?” Muffled static from the other end of the line, and the woman stifles a pained hitch of breath. “I’m sorry. Goodbye, Ray.”

Her voice, bordering on frustration, finally chokes up as the call ends. Vanderwood watches as she breathes and tries to control her shaking, drops the phone to swipe at her eyes roughly, and feels a mounting headache incoming. He’d seen a similar expression just hours ago, one directed at her.

He was still deciding if he should leave and pretend nothing ever happened when she turns around; and spots him looking. She stiffens, he flounders, and the cabin sinks into awkward silence.

A moment, and then-

“Was that the hacker?” He finally says when the silence drags for too long. It was a distinctive name, and he clearly remembers it from the chat with Seven’s phone. An even more skilled hacker than he first thought, he remembers, because even after more than half a day Seven had yet to shake them off.

She shrugs, gives a barely noticeable nod, shrugs again as she presses a hand to her chest to steady her breathing. Her eyes were slightly red-rimmed, but he pretends not to see. Vanderwood sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“I take that back. You and Mint-hair have a horribly complicated thing that I have no interest of knowing whatsoever. Least of all whatever that was with the hacker.”

“That’s fair.” She quips back, but they both know it was a weak comeback, the amused smile she gives self-deprecating and hollow.

Another lull of silence, and then Vanderwood sighs again, feeling a stab of pity for the woman before him.

“I’m going to make some tea. Want anything?” He says, hopes she won’t ask for something like a listening ear. He was never good at those.

A long-drawn-out sigh from her, and then she flashes him an apologetic look, trembles as she smiles fuller and more sincerely. “If I’m not imposing.”

They have tea quietly while watching the window, watch the stars appear and shine in the early twilight hours until the front door creaks open and V steps in.

 

x

x

 

There was a steely resolve in Mint-hair’s eyes. Vanderwood knows not why, but he has an inkling that their current status quo would not remain so for long. For the past hour the former had holed himself in with Seven, discussing the restoration of the hacked RFA app. Despite his pallid complexion, Mint-hair had been adamant in speaking with the hacker, and now both were conversing in jargon and terms he had to squint to understand.

Three was a crowd is the meagre size of the bedroom, and before long Vanderwood pushes past the doors, takes one more careful look at Mint-hair to make sure he was not overexerting, and leaves to check the perimeter one more time. One could never be too careful.

He had barely taken a few steps before he hears a thud from the other guestroom. Muffled, but loud enough to cause alarm, and when he knocks and flings the door open a hand was already reaching for his taser. It falters however, at the sight of a fallen knickknack and a stifled sob.

“You will be fine.” Her eyes widen when she sees him, but the coordinator remains unmoving, hand clutching the phone and moving away from the cabinet. Vanderwood watches, frozen, as tears fall down her cheeks.

She swipes at them hastily, presses her hand over her eyes and turns away, breath heaving as she swallows. The movement snaps him back to focus, and with clumsy motions he bends and picks up the ornament. There were cracks along the wood, splinters on the floor, and when he looks back up he sees her watching it, mouth taut as she winced in apology.

“It won’t hurt anymore, I promise, I promise…” Her eyes flick back to the phone in her hands, and then to him again, shakes her head and tries to hide her panic when he raises an eyebrow.

“Ray please…” The name catches his attention just as he reaches up to rub his temples. Vanderwood follows the stains of grief that trickles down her chin, sees the darkness return to her eyes, and clenches his jaw.

“I’m sorry.” She tries to comfort through the line, but Vanderwood knows, can see she had long ran out of her own emotions to give. “I’m sorry that this is all I can do for you. It’s, it’s going to be fine. Ray, I-”

“Ms Vanderwood? Hellooo?”

The sudden outburst makes them both flinch. Vanderwood curses, tilts his head back to the doorway. Footsteps thud outside, and he hears the creak of a door.

“Hellooo? Is everything okay?” Seven calls out again, and Vanderwood turns back to see her frozen mid-conversation. Fear flashes across her eyes as she heaves, grip on the phone loosening. Vanderwood swallows, stares at her tear stricken gaze and sees the subtle shaking of her head as she cups her mouth to muffle another choked shudder.

“Is something wrong?” Another voice cuts through the thick silence.  _Mint-hair_.

“No.” He speaks before he can think it though. “Just an accident with some utensils. Nothing I can’t handle.” He punctures each word with a meaningful grit of teeth, keeping his gaze steady on her. Her eyes widen in disbelief, and he responds with an unamused look that has her struggling to understand.

“Madam Vanderwood, clumsy? I never would have guess.” Seven again, but his tone was marginally lighter without the presence of a threat.

“Don’t make me come in there and taser you, 707.” Vanderwood yells back, fixes the coordinator with another meaningful look and eases somewhat when he sees her struggle to wipe the tears on her face. The phone falls from her ear, screen black and silent. When he nudges his head towards it, she merely shook her own, grief and hurt flashing minutely. He does not pry further.

“Is, is she…?” The concern in Mint-hair was so obviously palpable. But his voice only made her shrink further away, expression panicked as she tried to dry silent tears that would not stop falling. Vanderwood throws his handkerchief at her in response.

“Hold your horses, she’s fine!” It’s a frantic glare he gives her over her confused, deadpan expression as she looks back and forth between him and the piece of cloth, but then he was yelling assurances again, lying to her face as he wills them to go back in, and she has but little choice to take the help he had offered.

When the other door finally clicks shut, the coast finally clear, Vanderwood physically sags in relief. Brown eyes open to glare minutely at the woman before him, huffs when he sees her grip the soiled handkerchief in muted silence.

“I’ll wash it for you.” She croaks when he makes to take it back, sniffs quietly in embarrassment and refuses to look at him. “I’m fine now, I’ll be okay.”

“Yeah right. Hey, no matter how you look at it, that’s not fine at all!” He yells muffled protests as he follows her to the toilet, watches her soak and clean the cloth and cringes at her cracking emotional state.

But for all his complains there was little he could do, and so frustration and annoyance seeps into his veins as he cleans up the wooden splinters and prepares yet another pot of tea.

“Honestly, all this for a car.” He mutters as he nurses his tea, minutes before the door to the bedroom opens and Seven announces news of the chatroom revival.

 

x

x

 

He does not see her much at the hospital. Everything had been a blur after the cabin door had burst open; there had been so much blood, three of them had all tried to staunch it, and then his hands had grabbed the wheels of his own grizzled car as he drove to keep up with Seven’s, rushing to the hospital coordinates inputted into their GPS systems.

By the time he pulls over a flurry of activity had already taken place; staff assisting and pulling Mint-hair away from blood-soaked leather seating, unconscious and in pain. He winces to think of the excuses Seven would have to make to cleaning services.

The coordinator and Seven had both disappeared, leaving him to deal with the empty car. Any other time he would have grumbled, but the situation was dire enough to warrant him being lenient at least. He is after all, still not heartless.

Mint-hair might die, and Vanderwood dearly hopes for the sake of the RFA and Seven’s adherence to their agency jobs, that he does not.

The former was already in emergency operations by the time he parks both cars and enters the private ward. He finds Seven first, sees the renowned CEO Jumin Han in the flesh, before leaving them to their own devices. He will ask for payment soon enough. No sense to dawdle further, but there was the right time for everything. Apparently the hacker had not yet given up despite their faltering mistake.

His steps echo in the cold, sterilised corridors. Another turn towards the direction of the operating bay, and he sees her. She sits, facing the wall with phone held loosely in her hands. Her eyes were distant again, hazy and lost, face a haunted visage. They reflected a tired agent’s eyes, and Vanderwood feels some measure of solidarity when he nears, watches her close them to refocus before turning to him; hiding weakness.

There was nothing he could say. So he says nothing at all, stands and watches her unravel before him. It was loss that he has learnt to cope with, but one she has not been exposed to so much so soon. Perhaps that was why he lets her talk at all.

“I feel emotionally compromised.” An exasperated huff, and then he sees her features drop, sees her detached mask start to break.

“I know.” That was all he could do.

“I’m afraid.” She says suddenly, bare edges of exhausted panic as she looks at him with pleading eyes. “There’s something wrong. I feel like someone is going to-”

“Hey.” He halts her, swallows the lump in his throat that warned him away. “Everything is going to be fine.” It’s a weak consolation, an even weaker white lie. But she needed to hear this now, and that was all that matters. He would not take responsibility for another breakdown.

“I’m not going to lie, from where I’m at, this RFA thing looks like a really big mess.” He pauses, sees her pull herself together as he gathers his own train of thoughts. “I can’t promise a happy ending. But I know 707 and that rich CEO are both trying their best to solve this and get the best possible outcome. Now if only 707 puts this much effort for the agency…”

Vanderwood clears his throat, adjusts the back of his suit jacket and resists the urge to mutter a few curses. He could really use a smoke right about now.

“I’m sorry.” A shuddery sigh pulls the panic at bay as she palms the phone in her hands. The frown on her face was self-directed. “All this time, I have just been spilling my problems to you when I can’t even word them properly to the rest of the RFA.”

“Hey, it was fun while it lasted?” Vanderwood shrugs, taps his shoes against the cold white floor and hides his discomfort. He  _really_  wasn’t good at this. “It’s not as if you forced me to listen anyway.”

That finally coaxes the semblance of a wan smile on her face, and self-satisfied, he straightens, fixes his gloves and turns to leave, ignoring the curious look she gives. There are few certainties his career offers, and unless it pertains to his job, he never meets the same people twice. After tonight, he is certain he will never see her nor Mint-hair again.

“You will be alright.” He says, glances back and sees that she understands. The coordinator dips her head, gratitude swirling, and Vanderwood hopes that things would be as they should.

 

x

x

 

He hears about it when news of the explosion in the mountains ripples through the agency later that day.

Vanderwood tastes something sour; and feels something like guilt when he swallows. Nothing but cigarette smoke and wispy ashes.

 

x


	2. no more fires, only the wind to take them

**Hundred Years (and beyond)**

Vanderwood sees nothing but woody terrain surrounding the dirt tracks for a long time.

It has been hours since his mission’s completion, and now he drives, steers the sleek car that gleams bright scarlet red in the sunlight along the mountain road for the long road home. The wind blows in his face, curls the stands of hair around his ears and neck and sends tousled locks flying behind. He swipes at them lazily, brushes his bangs back as he eases the car into a winding turn.

Beneath the smooth rumble of engine purring he hears the cracking of pebbles as smooth tires run effortlessly over them. It would be a long way back to his house, an even longer way back to the agency. The very thought makes him bite back a sigh; he’d clean up well enough, but a fresh set of clothes could never beat a cold shower.

The plush seating of the car only alleviates his restlessness slightly; when it came down to it, Vanderwood had to commend on his partner’s choice of beauties. Seven had impeccable taste, and it clearly shows; streamlined features sleeked with style, tailor-made and designed for maximum efficiency. A fun ride to take a spin on, even outside of missions despite the bright colour. He would never admit it to himself, but the car had been absolutely worth the bribe.

Vanderwood hums as he makes a right turn uphill, and then pauses immediately when he sees the silhouette of a person weaving through shadow. Strange, there shouldn’t be hikers this high up and isolated within the mountains. As he drives closer he sees there was only one; holding a map and compass. Even closer, and when the rumbling of the engine finally catches the stranger’s attention and they turn to him he finds himself staring back at a memory.

Two years is a long time past, but a phantom familiarity surges up within him all the same, uprooting tendrils of faded emotion and thought. The coordinator’s hair was shorter now; could barely be tied back together in a haphazard ponytail. But her skin was no longer pale, and he sees an innate steeliness within as she stares back, clutching the strap of the bag pack over her shoulders.

The wind blows at her nape. Gold eyes had aged, but recognition flits through them when she squints at him and startles. They were brighter than before.

“Vanderwood…?” Incredulity colours her rasp as she catches her breath and pulls back. Something grey clouds her face when she looks over him and takes in the bright red car; Vanderwood wonders if she sees bygone ghosts and echoes of another life seemingly so far in the past. Some scars were just hard to forget.

“Yeah, who else? Don’t tell me you have forgotten.” His response comes quick and sharp, coaxing an uncertain smile, and Vanderwood pretends he does not feel the least bit surprised when she starts to laugh.

She had never laughed like that before, not during those couple of days when he had known her. Though none of those were in disbelief either, but the point still stands.

“I remember.” She faces him, eases and sighs with a kind of gratitude that borders fondness. “You look well.”

Stepping closer, she leans towards him over the car door to eye its interior. He sees her roam the front curiously, looking a lot taller when not burdened, and drums his fingers on the steering wheel, passive.   

“Should I ask what you are doing here?”

“Ah.” She swallows then, gesturing to the crumpled map and compass in her hands. “There is a place I need to go.” His eyes find hers, and she looks away uneasily.

Vanderwood raises an eyebrow and waves lazily to their surroundings. “This secluded in the mountains,” he blinks, hiding suspicion. “Alone.”

She shrugs, gives him a sheepish smile. Her shoes scrape the dry earth as she shuffles her feet, pulling away and standing back in the light shadows of swaying leaves.

“And let me guess, the RFA do not know.”

Another shrug, noticeably more nervous than the first, and Vanderwood groans. He should have known better; his agent charge had a knack of getting headfirst into trouble. Makes sense for those he considered attachments to be the same.

“D-Don’t tell Seven!” She stammers, stumbles over the words before he could even glance at his phone. “Please.”

The tinge of desperation makes him pause, and he looks at her from beneath his lashes, calculative and grim, sees the regret ripple through her subtle wince and the hard clench of her palm over oscillating compass. She brushes that flicker of emotion away anyway, continues to meet his gaze even though she knows he saw. The tense feeling in his chest grows tighter, curling towards a thought he’d hoped since he met her was not the case; this high up and away from civilisation, the exact coordinates, the compass.

_The look in your eyes._

There was only one place she would want to go.

The news had barely touched upon it two years ago; a major drug operation busted by authorities glossed over as superficially as the public needed to know. But the agency had known more about the explosion; and Vanderwood distinctly recalls the underground chatter of clients and priorities being shuffled. But not quite a setback, and in the end nothing much had changed.

He had known better, though. Even if Seven’s abrupt absence after was the only thing that could possibly alert him to a variation of the status quo.

He knows better.

“You thought you could hike your way there.” He says, dubious. “And back. In a day.”

“Two days, and I know I could.” She retorts back evenly, narrows determined eyes when he stares back.

“You have been planning this.” His tone rises, disbelief hitting him at the realisation. “For a long time too, haven’t you? God…” He pinches the bridge of his nose, mutters indiscernibly. “For being tight-knitted, can’t believe no one in that organisation’s got a degree in observation…”

Her mouth was taut in confusion when he finally looks back up, and Vanderwoods frowns, pushes his hair away when the wind rustles them. “Secret agents typically don’t go back to their scene of the crime twice.”

“Isn’t closure reason enough?”

“You think going back will help you move on?”

“I don’t know.” She says, shaking her head in exasperation. “But I want to try. Vanderwood,” her eyes plead with him. “I have been stalling long enough. I don’t know when I’ll next get the chance to do this. At the very least, I-” She stops, struggles to get the words out. Her eyes glint, and he thinks they might reflects dying embers of long-gone flames before she swipes away the memory. “I need to see.”

For a long while he stays silent, watches her challenging stare waver as she heaves silently and returns to study the map in her hands. Like this, she looked tired; a remnant of two years past. Vanderwood blinks, tries not to let the hollow weight of a distant promise overtake him.

“I don’t think I need to remind you that what you are doing is dangerous, right?” He could leave right now, pretended he saw nothing. After all, he ignores the sting of guilt as he revs the engine and the car purrs in response, she was just a woman he knew for a couple of days, no different from passing acquaintances in the agency. “…And you will go even if I object.”

She gives him a knowing smile in response. “You don’t have to help me.”

“Pfft, of course I don’t. Not like I had much of a conscience to in the first place.” He snorts, unlocks the car doors with a click and prays she does not pursue the matter further.

“…What?” _Of course, that was too much to ask._

“Seven will kill me if he finds out that I found you and did nothing to bring you home.” He grumbles, glances at her befuddled expression meaningfully until she takes uncertain steps closer to the car. “Don’t take it any other way. You just want a look, right?”

“Um.” She was still confused. But he clicks his tongue and stares expectantly until she walks to the other side of the car and opens the door, ignores her dubious look and takes her bemused gratitude as she sits gingerly on the plush leather. “He won’t, by the way. I made sure to leave when he was busiest.”

“Eh, wouldn’t be surprised if he finds out soon. That 707 has always been a wildcard.”

He speeds the car forward once she settles, maneuvers it higher into the mountain roads and towards a direction he could vaguely recall. The GPS system works well enough, better when the coordinator hands him the map and narrows down the catchment area they needed to go. He drives, observes from the corner of his eye her hazy contemplation as she turns to the side to watch the trees and terrain grow sparse. They pass the turn towards home, and Vanderwood sighs inwardly, hopes for his sake the detour would be worth forgoing his shower.

“So, how’s Mint-Hair doing?” Probably not the best question right off the bat, but he will take what he can get. Can’t blame him for being nosy either; though still an outsider, as an agent he’s been thrown into this too deep for him to deny otherwise.

“V?” The minute surprise in her eyes fade quickly. At least she always took his bluntness in stride. “Ah well, we-” she pauses, searches for the right words to say. “He’s…alive?”

 _Right_ , the last time he saw him the man was blood-soaked and half dead from pain.

Vanderwood swallows the laugh that threatens to leave his throat, fixes her with a look she returns with equally dry emotion. “Of course he is.” She hadn’t known that he had heard as much from Seven.  

“He’s away though. We haven’t seen each other in a long time.” She smiles then, wistful but at ease. “I needed space to sort things out. He said he did too.”

“Well then.” He glimpses a soft steeliness in her eyes before he turns back to the road, sees it reflect something vaguely like detached regret, and says no more.

The rest of the drive was spent in relative silence, broken only by the quiet warbling static of the radio when he tried to turn it on. An awful splutter without signal, and he abandons it soon after, resisting the urge to light a cigarette. He didn’t mind the wind much anyways, though the constant need to tuck his hair back was starting to irk. The coordinator had said nothing to his constant motions, but the next time they slowed to check the map she offers him an extra hairband. Vanderwood pretends embarrassment does not exist when he takes it, focuses on the strong breeze on his skin and the road a little too intently he misses the amused snort she gives.

The sky was turning orange by the time the GPS chirps a series of alerts and goes silent. Vanderwood glances at her as he slows the car to a stop, parking it inconspicuously within the shadows of a grove of trees. She catches his eye, gives him a reassuring look he takes no comfort in, and steps out.

They walk, follow a dirt trail into the forest as she leads, trying to retrace a half-forgotten escape path. The remains of the cult building had been tempered off with loose police tape, yellow strips waving listlessly in the wind. They step wordlessly over it.

Fire had melted much of the building away; charred white marble and done away with all the stained glass. Now it was barely a clump of blackened structure, solitary and forgotten and untouched. Even now, grass refused to grow on the yellowed ground near pieces of debris. Shards of broken pieces litter the courtyard as they step closer, iridescent green dull and half buried by soil. Vanderwood makes sure to avoid the jagged cracks in the concrete, keeping one careful eye on the coordinator and the other on their surroundings. Nothing but trees and the distant calls of birdsong and crickets.

No one had been here for a very long time.

He blinks, vigilant, and registers that she had stopped. Sharp eyes follow her gaze, holds his silence and wisely chooses to stay a distance away. The coordinator stares at the building for a long time, unknown emotion in her eyes. Vanderwood notes the subtle shaking of her fist, watches her shoulders slacken as she exhales, and looks away.

Finally she moves, and he follows as she walks around the perimeter of the ruined building. The undergrowth was thicker once they step off the courtyard, and he clicks his tongue in irritation as he attempts to wade through shrub and poking roots. She pushes on without him, crunches through the leaf litter with force that snapped twigs and sent pebbles tumbling.

“Hey! Slow down a little, won’t you?”

His exclamation goes unanswered, and when he looks up from gaining footing on gnarly roots, catches sight of her retreating back as she wades up the slope of trees to the back of a thick cluster.

“Look,” he calls, punctuates each word with deliberate emphasis. “I know you said you came here for closure but frankly, you don’t look, you know-”

“Like I’m in the right mind for it?” She shouts as she spins to face him, the sudden movement rendering him mute with surprise. Her eyes were fierce, blazing and raw; holding none of the poise from before. She mutters indiscernibly to herself, posture too rigid and shoulders too tense; and he sees the rattled frustration simmering inside level into something controllable as she takes a deep breath.

“Calm down.”

He catches up to her then, weaves clumsily through the gaps of bushes cautiously until he is close enough to see the angry frown on her face.

“...Those are your words, not mine.” He murmurs, jab unwarranted and out of his mouth before he could think it through. Immediately he winces at his lack of social decency, sees defiant shock grace her eyes. “Shit. I mean, I’m sorry-”

“I know.” A grimace touches her lips, sheepish and offended and forgiving all at once, and a small part of Vanderwood wonders if he was seeing what he wanted to see even as she steps back and looks at him to follow. “I’m sorry too. But I am though, don’t worry.”

“Yeah right.” He scoffs, through his tone was considerably milder and held no bite. “Who says its worry?”

The coppice opens to a less dense area of forest, and here the eroding stone walls of the perimeter gives way to open land. Vanderwood steps out from the shadows of willowy branches, and takes in the sight of dozens of wild flowers growing over the gentle hill. Daisies grow in abundance, a sea of yellow above greener grass. Patches of faded purple grow in clumps on higher bushes, and wild orchids peeked hidden in grass stalks. Azaleas; she tells him as wandering eyes linger too long on the purple blooms.

The ground was varied, remains of stone hedges separating twining vines and grass stalks. There might have been footpaths before, but they were all covered now. He watches her step into the flower patch carefully, hears the soft crunch of grass yield to her feet.

“Is this what you were trying to find?” He wonders what this place used to be, a piece of ground hidden behind a charred land that could flourish. He could venture a guess, though hollow answers won’t mean anything now.

She smiles a wan smile in response. “It didn’t used to be like this.”

The wind blows, stirring the flowers in the clearing. Birdsong echoes in the open sky, and both look up to see distant shapes glide over the sinking sun. Not quite sunset yet, but night comes quicker in the mountains, and it wouldn’t be long till dusk. The edges of his jacket flare up, bringing cool relief as the breeze dies. Like this, it was almost peaceful. Pity, he wasn’t used to peace.

“-od? You listening? Vander, hey-“

“Vander?” His nose wrinkles as he finally pays attention and parrots. Thoughts of the abbreviation waver at the awaiting look he receives, and in the end he shrugs, runs a gloved hand through loose bangs and readjusts the hairband securely. “Right, so. I’m just going to stand here. Take your time or something.”

She stares at him searchingly, but soon moves on, pads toward the stone hedges to brush at the orchids. White flowers, swayed by the motions of her feet, break into dusty clouds as the breeze blows it airborne. Almost transparent, fragile little things, and Vanderwood watches them scatter far from the hill, a diamond dust of seeds dissipating into the wilderness beyond. He knows that flower at least; seen the weed countless times during missions and whatnot. Pretty enough, but its seeds were a pain in the neck to clean out of his suits.

_Doesn’t look like it was going to be any different this time too._

He switches his gaze, glances up to see her also watching the dispersion, a faraway look in her eyes. Her face was unreadable as she returns to look at the mass of wild flowers, and he feels foolish even as he opens his mouth to ask.

“What are you searching for?”

His voice barely echoed around the clearing, but she startles all the same, jolts and faces him with brows raised.  A vague recollection of crudely drawn flowers brushes his mind then, blurry and unclear like clouds. A cursory glance around spies none of them in sight.

“Doesn’t matter.” She shakes her head, voice cutting through the fading mist of a memory before it could solidify properly. Something heavy laces the lightness of her words. “They are all gone anyway. Maybe it’s for the best.”

Vanderwood purses his lips and says little else, watches her ache through hooded eyes. Loss was never easy to cope; attachment was frowned upon in the agency for this exact reason. Not for the first time he feels a twinge of sympathy for the woman before him. Nothing but superficial pangs though, but that was fine. He supposes these shallow feelings will have to be enough for her, never mind the weird twinge in his chest when he thinks otherwise.

Her footsteps bring him out of his musings as she walks closer to the edge of the hill, and begrudgingly he follows, stepping carefully over azalea clumps as he steps into the sun’s shadow. She turns to him when he nears and gazes with a sort of contemplation he huffs at, squinting when the ripening sky hits their eyes a molten gold.

“Hey, Vander, mind hearing me out?” Her voice, soft, held an inevitable weight.

Two years ago he would have backed away immediately, unwilling stranger caught in a web that was not his own. But the person before him was a different shadow from the past, someone he knew as well as he could. And he knew enough to know she was stuck in a conundrum that made her an unwilling catalyst. They were more alike than he’d care to admit.

“Eh, sure.” He shrugs, steps back into the shadows of sweet wildflowers and away from the sun’s rays, gulps down the sudden spike of stiff awkwardness that washes upon him. “But I gotta warn you first; emotional baggage isn’t really my thing.”

“I said something I regretted.” She calls out after him, and Vanderwood steels himself as he tilts his head back to watch her sigh. _Jumping straight into it, huh_.

“I have been thinking about it for a long time.” She continues, pensive, shrugging wanly and turning her side to the sun. The heat must sting, but she remains unmoving, makes no movement towards the shade. She pauses, wraps her arms around herself, and then softer; “I thought I loved him.”

“Yeah, I figured.” Vanderwood blinks; keeps his gaze level. The hacker had always been the centre of the problem that had her in turmoil; even he knew that much. “Stockholm syndrome got you good then.”

He does not miss the amused grimace that touches her lips.

“…You sound like Jumin.”

“Heh, really?” A smirk grazes his mouth briefly before smoothing away. “Then I got to give credit to C&R’s CEO then. He must really be the smart one if he’s the only one who told you this.” Harsh remark, but it was needed.

He had barely finish before she was shaking her, brows furrowed as she meets his gaze. “It wasn’t Stockholm.”

“Oh?” He returns it, full of doubt. “You sound so sure.”

“I am. I know it wasn’t. I knew what I was doing. I-”

“Do you?” He says, watches her hesitate and her mouth pull taut. The implications settle heavily like a fog, and Vanderwood struggles to remember the memory of half-hearted white lies formed from the spur of the moment. “You were emotionally manipulated.”

“…Mmh.” She closes her eyes as the breeze picks up, brushes loose hair away with quiet acceptance. Vanderwood bites back his surprise at her compliance and waits, sees her open them again and the clear certainty reflected within. “But I’m sure of it.”

“Pity then?” He continues without reservation, observes her relentlessly as she flinches. “From what I understand, that hacker was the pathetic sort. It’s easy to emphasize with those that are more unfortunate. Though it doesn’t change the fact that they did really terrible things.”

“Pathetic?” She tests the word sceptically, gives him an affronted look he cannot help but look away.

“You know what I mean.”

She goes quiet for a bit, and the resulting silence of the hill drowns them with the crooning of a dozen starlings. The sun had left her face, and now it creeps down her neck, wavering light brushing the tops of distant mountains. Fidgeting, she rubs her burning cheek, features subsiding into something tired as she moves closer to the shade.

“I, I suppose you are right.” Her mouth parts uncertainly when he turns back, closes as she frowns. “But that isn’t all. I genuinely did feel…” She stops, struggles to continue as her breath caught and shuddered. “Feel… something.” Nails dig into skin as she glares at the ground, and Vanderwood sees the echo of pent-up frustration push its way out from her depths.

Another seething exhale, but he knew better.

“We connected. But it wasn’t enough.” Her words were curt and short, and the last of her anger drains away as she looks up at him with an expression that mirrors snippets of early days in the agency he rather not recall. She shrugs, and gives a softer, less self-deprecating smile. “I wanted to save him.”

Vanderwood only sighs in response, and resists the urge to groan and pinch the bridge of his nose.

_Really, how presumptuous of you._

“Don’t look at me like that.” A soft click of tongue makes him focus on the look she gives him; all knowing with regret. “It was stupidly self-righteous of me, I know, I know. I couldn’t have done it alone, saving people doesn’t work that way.”

“…I don’t even want to know how you knew that was on my mind. But this makes things easier.” Without a need to hide, he was free to showcase his mannerisms of irritation. Vanderwood pinches the bridge of his nose, fixes the coordinator a look that had her look disquiet. “So? Why?”

“He wouldn’t have listened to anyone else. Ray was-, I, he needed-” Sorrow casts over her eyes for an instant, threatens to unearth something deeply rooted, but the moment passes as she shakes her head. Old, forgotten nightmares cannot harm anymore, try as they might. There was nothing left to haunt. “But I had to try.”

It was enough-

“I, must have done a horrible job for it to turn out like this though.”

Her words curl something unpleasant within him, and Vanderwood is hardly aware of the frustrated protest he makes as he stomps towards her, only sees her startle just in time to notice the sun in his face and their bridging distance.

“Look, coordinator.” He mutters, leaning forward with arms gesticulating wildly in the air until he was sure he had her full undivided attention. “707 drives me nuts with his pity-parties all the time, if you are gonna be the same I don’t think I can take it. Now listen, I don’t know much about the situation and honestly, I could care less about this whole RFA mess. But you got to know, this isn’t your fault. Whatever that happened.”

“Wh-”

“Here is my two-cents. Listen if you want. But know that you were a victim as much as he is. If he doesn’t want to be saved, then there’s nothing more you can do to help. In the end, he was the one that chose what happened to him.” He clicks his tongue in disapproval and drops his arms when they begin to throb. “Honestly, can’t say I feel that sorry for him or that crazy cult leader. Sometimes no matter how much you try, some things will just be a lost cause. It doesn’t mean that’s your fault. That’s just how the world works. There are things you can’t control, most you can do is come to peace with it and keep going on.”

She blinks at him when he finally ends his tirade. Vanderwood would have thought that his little speech had rendered her stupefied, if not for the subtle curving of her mouth as she regarded him with growing amusement. Abruptly she smiles, eyes glinting in mirth.

“Now you sound just like my therapist.”

He splutters speechlessly and she laughs, all light-hearted and no shadow. It was almost worth the red-hot embarrassment that flare at the tips of his ears and neck. Vanderwood scoffs as he attempts to yell back; she only laughs louder, genuine and happy, and he almost forgets the severity of their conversation until she turns back to the sky.

“Yes, I know.” She sobers, watches pinkish shadows form behind clouds. “Though that doesn’t make the ache any less painful.”

He can say nothing to that.

“Will time help, Vander?” She turns to him finally, open curiosity in her eyes, all raw and frank, considers the thought that spurred her up here in the first place. “I’m glad I came here, but I still feel… disconnected.”

There was nothing indirect about it, and he huffs and shrugs in response. “Don’t know. You will just have to wait and see, right?” Brown eyes watch her discreetly, sees lightness touch grey dullness and reach deeper than her eyes. “I’m not a big optimist, but if it’s you.” He pauses, weighs his words carefully as he meets her gaze. “Well, you look like the sort that will bounce back quickly.”

“Granted, with emotional scarring.” She quips back.

He pulls a face. “You are not helping yourself here, you know.”

The look she gives him in response borders both cheeky and self-deprecating, and with a groan he slaps his hand over his forehead and huffs loudly.

“Gahh! I’m not good at this. I can’t even snap at you without feeling bad since you don’t talk weird like Seven.”

“I’m, uh, sorry for that?” A stifled snort. She was laughing at him, he _knows it_.

“Ha, ha. You are mocking me, aren’t you?” He says dryly as he lifts his head, regards her with a wary ease when she coughs and breaks composure, reduced to shaking heaves again. Alarm sweeps through him as he watches her laugh, laugh and laugh and laugh until tears brim over her eyes and panic seizes him as she starts to cry.

Blades of grass brush their ankles as the wind shifts, and Vanderwood watches, stands there petrified as she shakes, tears dripping down her chin like petals sewn in a distant garden. Laughing sobs wreck her frame in heaves, and it takes him a few seconds too long to think of what to do. Swallowing heavily, he steps closer and moves to touch her shoulder, pretends he did not flinch at the contact as he gives it a few awkward pats. He thinks he hears a muffled snort, but then she was rubbing her eyes, trying to brush the offending tears away, and he feels no more but unadulterated panic as he continues to awkwardly comfort, curses the fact that he didn’t have an extra handkerchief with him today.

The wind blows, tousles wind-strung hair and rustles the edges of their clothes. It shakes her bangs loose, and Vanderwood thinks nothing of it as he tucks the pieces behind her ears to avoid tearstained tracks, brushes her hair once in a meagre attempt to straighten the mess. He jerks away only when she jolts in response, hands stiff in mid-air as he watches her, thinks nothing of it until she takes one tentative look at him and chuckles.

He would feel embarrassed, but the sight of her stricken face renders him immobile. Tears continue to fall from her cheeks even as she swipes at them with damp hands. He is halfway to pulling off his jacket for an offering before she realises and tries to dissuade him, laughing broken sobs as she pushes against the offending outerwear.

“I’m touched, but you really don’t need to.”

“You are not saying that only to be polite, right?” He mutters frantically back, stilling only when she pauses to turn away and sniff loudly. “Really. It might be gross and all, but I’m going to have to wash everything later anyway, so-”

“Thanks, Vanderwood.” Two simple words; conveyed with a finality that renders him speechless. He stops, swallows hardly, fingers gripped almost too tight over the limp fabric half-thrown over his shoulder. She smiles, huffs unsteadily as the last of her tears fall. Her face was red-swollen, nose on the brink of leaking again, but her eyes were bright, clear and certain with a different clarity he only noticed now. She wipes her tears away and looks upward into the indigo horizon, gazes with a wistfulness that was slight and unshackled.

“…Yeah. No problem.” He breathes a sigh of relief, steps further away to regard her warily. The expression must have shown on his face, because the coordinator sighs and makes to open her mouth.

In that moment a sudden gust of strong wind picks up and muffles her words, sending dozens of dandelion seeds and wayward petals over their heads and into the sky. A flying sea of soft autumn colour whisks past them and sweeps their hair, white fluff stirring outstretched grass as the dandelions soar, trailing towards the sunset. Like feathers of a freed bird, and they watch the petals disappear in companionable silence.

Vanderwood picks at a speck of white on his pant leg, glances back over his shoulder to see his jacket covered with the soft burrs. More work for him to do, but for the moment he can’t find it in himself to care. Across him the coordinator stands tall, content and at peace.

 

x

x

 

It was early dawn when she jostles awake in the kitchen; doorbell ringing one many times too loudly her sleep-fuddled body struggles to follow. She stumbles to the door, clutches the half-done mug of coffee in numb fingers, opens it with a yawn and sleepy hello. Seven grins apologetically as he waltzes in, holding breakfast and sprouting greetings eccentric and long, delivers an elaborate spiel about Zen’s tripsterbot she cannot help but laugh at.

It had been too long since she has seen him last; chats in the messenger notwithstanding. Longer even, for certain members. She thinks of V and the postcards he sends from around the world, and feels lighter at the knowledge that he didn’t need her anymore to know how to stand.

(He looks at her differently now. She never did.)

Seven heaves the takeaway onto the table, skips to get cutlery as she opens the window. The faint scent of dogwood blossoms waft inside, magnified within the crisp cold air. It smelt of spring.

More muffled padding of footsteps, and Seven reappears, presses a fork into her hands before he sits and starts to stuff himself. The cuff of his jacket shifts as he eats, and she glimpses the curve of a plaster over his wrist. Concealed, unmentioned.

There were dark circles beneath his eyes.

“Oh right.” He mumbles through a mouthful of bun before she can comment, blows away the vague heaviness to her chest when her unfocused train of thought breaks. “Vanderwood threw a fuss the moment he knew I was coming.”

“Really?” She blinks at him, surprised. He returns the gesture by batting his eyelashes playfully.

“He wanted me to ask if you were okay.” Another faux pout as he wriggles his brows and hums in exaggerated motion. “I didn’t know my dear 606 and the scary Madam were close. You are going to make 707 awfully curious you know?”

A car rushes by outside, the grind of the engine quickly swallowed up by the morning peace. Seven observes the edge of the windowsill, before looking at her.

“Really though,” His eyes flicker, reflect something more serious. “Not sure what Vanderwood meant but, you okay?” He fidgets, looks at her with the weight of a concerned friend.

The knowledge warms her more than he would never know.

“Tell him, tell him the anemones are here again.” A breeze pushes its way through the windows, settles white and viridian ovals on the ledge. The fragrance was a far cry from one so potent in her past, but like this, like this she finds she doesn’t mind it at all. She smiles, a reflection of a memory no longer burdened.

“But I’ll be fine.”

 

x

x

x

 

_“This better not become a habit.”_

_“Habit of what?”_

_“Me having to help you every time we meet.”_

_Movement occurs beside him, and Vanderwood turns to regard the woman with mock exasperation, deflects her protests with dry one-liners that has her snort and return with equal fervour, and closes one ear when she starts to remind him the reason he was here. Call him petty, but her previous breakdown had left him flailing too much to not consider paying it back._

_In the descending quiet her voice echoes distinctly, breaks his chain of thought. “You still think we’d meet?” He hears only genuine curiosity. “I thought secret agents never meet anyone twice, unless it’s a target or something.”_

_“Well,” He says, strangely subdue and pensive. “Look where that got us.”_

_Silence falls again when they cannot find words, and both watch the setting sun quietly, sees the wildflowers sway and the pink clouds glow into a dusky purple. Swallows cry out in the distance, warbling a song of coming home._

_It was funny, Vanderwood supposes, that the world had a peculiar way of doing things._

_“Then,” she starts, uncertain, “the next time we meet,” weighs her words with slow implication, and he glimpses sincerity reflect the fading gold in her eyes when he gives her a one-sided glance. “maybe I can help you instead.”_

_“Yeah?” He pushes down the smirk at how unlikely it would be, contemplates the notion of a reversal situation instead and has to stifle a chuckle. “That’d be nice.”_

_A favour wouldn’t be too bad at all._

 

x

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N.
> 
> And with this the trilogy is finished!! I think this was my first time trying out a series. Very similar to a multi-chapter fic, but with the opportunity to weave many more themes into each individual part haha. Glad I could pull through and make it work after 4 months! this fic was always a long time coming because from the start the parallels between vander and mc (both strangers that were unwillingly roped into the Mint Eye fiasco just by association with the RFA organisation) always gives me the need for more gen-content exploring their dynamics.
> 
> Vanderwood is such a spikeball lol. His personality is an odd blend of pseudo-tsundere and mature, cynical adult lol. Fun times. Man, writing this was really therapeutic for V-route- 
> 
> Lion’s tooth is another name for the dandelion flower. though it’s a common weed, the very fact that it can thrive almost anywhere makes it symbolise one’s own ability to rise above life’s challenges and difficulties. it can also refer to the warmth and power of the rising sun.
> 
> The dandelion is the only flower that represents the 3 celestial bodies of the sun, moon and stars. the yellow flower resembles the sun, the puff ball resembles the moon and the dispersing seeds resemble the stars. it mirrors the analogy in v-route, and the all compassing nature of Mysmes in general. (Also, the flower itself is a very *very* low key ref to vanderwood VA’s role on previous cheritz games.)
> 
> The flowerstorm in the last scene is supposed to mirror the sparks of fire trailing into the sky from the 2nd part of the trilogy; also, the setting (you can infer things about the season and sun especially) is a low key reference to the placeholder series’ name, which again, mirrors analogy to V-route. Both azalea and dogwood also have symbolism that are relevant to the characters they interact with. 
> 
> Hope you guys enjoyed this! I think this is my most prized work for Mysmes to date, (ironically gen content HAH. man I love gen content). Onward to Ray’s route on the 31st!


End file.
